Bruise Pristine Hotel room, 3.00 am: Two of them sharing a single, cause they can't afford their own rooms. Not like it matters anyway; they've been sharing rooms, beds, cardboard boxes since their early teens. It's not their room, but the guy said they could spend the night; he isn't coming in tonight. Billy can't remember who it was anymore.
Joe's got dibs on the bed, but Billy isn't worried: Joe'll let him in once he gets drunk enough. The way it works; the way it's always worked.
Joe's polishing off the tail-end of a bottle of Jack he swiped from the bar at the shithole club they played earlier; Billy's still got half of his vodka left. He likes to stay just an inch or so on the sober side of Joe - gives him the edge he needs to keep Joe from fucking with his head too much. Joe can be a bullying bastard; Billy needs all the edge he can get.
Billy's in the chair, his legs thrown over the arms. He's listening to Joe sing; slurred, soft mumblings: a Bucky Haight tune, what else. Fucking Bucky. Fucking dink. Billy lets it go, though; he's sick of trying to talk Joe out of his Bucky obsession. Maybe Joe'll grow out of it. Fat fucking chance. Joe's twice the punk Bucky ever was, but that's not an argument Billy's going to use to Joe's face.
Joe's bottle hits the carpet with a hollow thud; it's empty. Joe's lying on his back, bare-chested, wearing nothing but the same pair of ratty jeans he's been wearing all week. Billy thinks those are his jeans; doesn't matter, they don't make much of a distinction between 'mine' and 'yours'. Might be Billy filched those jeans off Joe years ago - they're too large for him, anyway, if Joe looks that comfy in them.
Joe's staring at Billy staring at him. Joe's not handsome, but he's intense; his eyes are like blowtorches. Billy's always stood in Joe's shadow, despite being 'the cute one'. Joe gets the groupies; Joe doles them out to Billy and John and Pipe after he's taken his pick. The way it works. Joe's got the libido of the three of them put together.
That libido is at work now, looks like; Joe rolls over on the bed, pins Billy with his blowtorch eyes. Asks, out of the blue or whatever dingy hole in his brain thoughts like that come from: You ever been ass-fucked?
Billy has to look away from Joe - like turning away from a rush of oncoming headlights and losing a game of chicken. His tongue trips over the words: I've-- What the-- what the fuck's that?
Joe, the fuckhead, catches the sputter and grins; it's his I've-got-you-now-Billy-boy grin.
Just answer the fucking question, Billiam.
Billy tastes bile. He's too drunk to lie and make Joe believe it; Joe doesn't look drunk at all. Was he faking drinking that bourbon? Billy could swear he saw every hit Joe took out of that bottle.
Fuck you, he says. It's lame, but he's not going to let Joe jerk him around. Joe's glare turns a notch hotter; Billy squirms. Takes another drink. He's at the point where the raw booze tastes like water.
Biii-iiillllyyy, Joe sneers, pulling out the syllables like gum, waggling his tongue lewdly around the 'l'. Come on, Billy, ever take it up the ass?
Asshole, Billy mutters. His lips are numb and it comes out sounding like 'shoal'.
Yeah, he finally says, matching Joe's stare. This is a good time to not back down. Joe blinks once; that's the only clue he's even remotely surprised.
You let some guy fuck you? Who was it?
What, you're pissed off it wasn't you? Billy says, and his voice sounds scratchy and raw in his own ears. He looks away. Drinks some more. Joe'll never let go of this, no fucking way.
Yeah, I'm pissed off it wasn't fucking me, Joe says, fumbling for his cigs; lights one. Joe can get away with saying shit like that; everyone knows he calls the shots. Billy has to wonder about himself: wonder why he hasn't left - why he's still spending his nights in these rat circus motels, drinking piss like this, taking Joe's bullshit. Jesus, who's he trying to convince? Himself? He knows, of course he knows. When things are shitty, they're pretty fucking shitty, but when it's good, when Joe relaxes his asshole side, let's things slide for once - magic. The music's magic. Magic makes a lot of shit worth it in the end.
Shit like tonight. Crappy gig: John was acting psycho, Pipe kept missing his cues, Joe was pissed because the owner of the shithole club - a mountain of flab aptly named Skunk Dixon - refused to give them free beer. When Joe's pissed, Billy usually catches the backdraft.
Who the fuck was it? Joe asks suddenly, and Billy almost drops the bottle. Hoping Joe would lose track of the conversation was too much to ask. It's not a conversation Billy wants to have; not when Joe's in this pissy, fuck-the-world-and-especially-you mood.
But Joe's looking strangely serene, like he's come to a decision. He's blown some smoke rings and is now fucking them up with a wave of his hand.
Who, who - Billy had been high at the time; he can't remember the guy's name, but Joe doesn't need to know that.
Just some guy, he says, shrugging and going for the vodka again. This time it burns his throat going down. He feels sick and excited; can't decide which feeling is stronger.
Did you like it? Joe says, sitting up. He looks politely interested, like this is just another chit-chat they're having. Billy can see his dick getting hard in the tight jeans, though. Is this a horny hard-on or a mean hard-on? Billy's never been able to tell; Joe gets off as much on fucking with people's heads as he does just fucking them.
Billy shrugs again: attempt at looking cool-casual with his heart hammering in his chest. The nausea has settled; excitement wins, hands down.
Was okay, he says.
Joe keeps staring at him; Billy feels hot and sticky. Wants to take off his shirt; can't, not with Joe looking at him like that.
You gonna finish that vodka? Joe asks, stubbing out his cigarette on the bedspread, leaving a black smudge to go with the ones left by previous customers. Billy wants to smoke, but he's out of cigs, and he doesn't want to ask Joe for some. Not now.
Yeah.
Gimme some.
Fuck you.
Don't make me come and get it, Joe says. His eyes have turned cold. Billy's not afraid of him, but he's too drunk to fight Joe tonight, especially with Joe so clearly spoiling for it, so he scrambles out of the chair and hands Joe the bottle.
Joe takes the bottle and grabs Billy's hand before Billy can retreat back to his chair.
Want me to fuck you? Joe says. His eyes glitter; Billy knows this night will end with Joe's dick up his ass no matter what he says.
Okay, he says. He wants it; he doesn't want it. He gets horny just thinking about Joe fucking him; the thought of Joe getting that sort of power over him makes his stomach twist again.
No engraved fucking invitation? Joe says. He takes a hit of the vodka; puts the bottle down on the floor, still holding Billy's hand in a steel grip. He's grinning again; that same grin. He's sure got Billy now.
You gonna do it or what? Billy asks irritably. His head is spinning slowly: round round round it goes. He hates this; Joe's coming out on top again. He loves this; Joe's gonna fuck him.
How do you want it then, Mr. Tallent? Joe asks; the asshole's even sounding like he gives a fuck. Sure thing.
Go slow at first, and if you make me fucking bleed I'll fucking cut your dick off, Billy growls. Joe laughs and pulls him down on the bed.
You sure know how to set the mood, girlfriend.
Shut the fuck up.
Joe's pushing Billy's teeshirt over his head. Billy closes his eyes for a second; tries to pretend this won't fuck up their relationship. He's not drunk enough to fool himself.
Kiss me, he says before he has time to think.
Fuck that, Joe says, I'm not a fucking fag.
Don't give me that fucking rough trade bullshit, Joe. You wanna fuck me, you fucking kiss me.
It means more to Billy than he wants to admit. He's not one of Joe's fucking groupies. Joe rolls his eyes, but he pulls Billy's face up to his. Roughly. Never expect tenderness from Joe Dick. The kiss is more like a bite, but Billy's insides are liquid and hot. Joe tastes like vodka and cigarettes and fire.
Happy now?
Billy wouldn't call this happy.
Fucking ecstatic, he says, twisting his face at Joe. Joe ignores the sarcasm and kisses Billy again. It's a little less aggressive this time; maybe Joe figures Billy's such a bitch anyway, doesn't matter what Joe does. Won't make a dent in his macho fucking image.
Macho image intact, Joe backs off. Mission accomplished. Billy's breathless and melting. Imagines this scene - briefly - on a better day; Joe less spiteful, Billy less drunk and pathetic. Maybe after a marathon songwriting session; that's the real juice, the mainline - both of them so high on it that there really is no difference between them, so high Joe doesn't need to stake a claim and Billy doesn't have to choose between fighting back and giving it up.
Roll the fuck over, Billy, Joe says. Reality: you can't stay high - here and now's Joe off music, on power. He looks cool and matter-of-fact now that he's on top; Billy resents that. He rolls over anyway.
Joe's hands pulling at his hips, groping for his belt buckle, undoing it, undoing the buttons of his jeans, yanking them down. Billy's thinking, no, I can't be letting him do this, I can't be letting him do this, I can't--
He is letting Joe do this. He wants Joe to do this. He presses his face into the pillow. It smells stale and dusty: attic-smell, old-granny smell, the stink of too many years. His hand is hanging over the side of the bed, his knuckle grazing the skanky carpet. He waves it around a little; tries to find the bottle of vodka. Tries to think about something other than Joe's hands on his skin. Doesn't succeed.
He should be too drunk to get hard; same goes for Joe, but there's not enough booze in the world to stop Joe Dick from taking a piece of ass he wants. Billy's ass, some groupie's ass, someone's wife's ass.
Joe isn't hesitating; Billy tries to remember if he's ever seen Joe do this to some chick. Vaguely, he does. He doesn't think Joe was this rough with her. Joe isn't rough with groupies unless they beg for it. What does it mean that Joe is handling Billy like he doesn't care if something breaks? Does it mean Billy's worth less than a groupie; does it mean Billy's just different?
Maybe it means Joe knows Billy too well; knows that Billy can laugh through broken teeth.
Billy hears Joe unbuckling his jeans; Joe spitting into his hand, and forces himself to relax. No point putting up a fight; he said okay and only a wimp backs out now. Joe wouldn't let him back out anyway.
It doesn't hurt as much as the last time. Joe's not any smaller than that guy; it's Billy that's changed. Still hurts; burns and chafes, but it's better than okay. Billy can't think more than five minutes forward in time; everything beyond this has to wait. Tomorrow - facing Joe in the morning, hangover, what-did-I-do-what-did-you-do... Tomorrow doesn't exist yet.
Billy... Joe mumbles, sounding weird; his voice is almost meek. Nothing else about him is meek: his hands release Billy's hips where they'll leave a row of round fingerprint bruises for Billy to find in the morning, and grab Billy's arms instead. He's rough, but Billy's pretending there's tenderness between them now; maybe, he thinks, maybe Joe wants to be tender but can't.
Joe's moving: sharp jerks that bang Billy's head into the headboard. Dizziness returns; heat soars in Billy's gut. He's almost choking himself on the pillow; if Joe hears him moaning like a bitch it'll be the fucking end. He feels raw through and through; raw where he isn't hot, or dizzy, or suffocating in his skin.
Sound filters through the swirling in his head: bang bang bang of his head against the board; Joe's harsh panting in his ear; his own strangled whimpers; the creaking of the bed that sounds more obscene than the slap of naked skin hitting naked skin.
Black clouds billow in front of Billy's eyes; he finally turns his face an inch to the side: enough to snap a quick gulp of air. It's not enough; he wonders if it's possible to kill yourself this way. He's sinking; floating, sinking, floating into a place where nothing's real but Joe Dick's fucking dick.
He has to breathe now; fights down a surge of panic, gulps in air rank with sweat and sex. The world returns, and Joe's not just a disembodied dick anymore, but a heavy, heaving presence behind Billy: fingers digging into his biceps; hot, damp breath on Billy's bare neck; scratchy hair on Joe's legs chafing Billy's inner thighs.
He's concentrating on Joe; his own orgasm takes him by surprise. It hurts, coming like this; same sudden agony as a gut punch - only good. He lets out a sound; reminds him of that scene in Deliverance. He'll never live this down, never - but then Joe squeals as well; maybe it'll be okay. Joe pounds into him twice, so hard Billy imagines the head of Joe's dick bursting out through his chest in an X-rated homage to Alien.
It's over. Joe collapses onto Billy's back like someone let the air out of him; Billy welcomes the weight, the warmth. He's quivering under Joe's bulk; they're already sticking together.
Aaaah, Joe sighs, sounding pleased with himself. Rolls off; losing the thickness of Joe's dick feels like tearing out a limb, right out of the socket, and Billy has to smother his cry in the pillow again.
That was some ride, Billy boy, Joe says sleepily. Fucker's already nodding off. Billy's burning with equal parts shame and ectasy.
Fuck you, Joe, he says; feels Joe's shrug in the mattress.
Whatthefuckever.
Joe sleeps.
Billy lies quietly, feeling like an open wound; wonders if it'll fester. Tomorrow is creeping up behind the flowered curtains. |
